Lean on Me
by allthingsdecent
Summary: House finds out something upsetting about Cuddy's new boyfriend. (Set in late S2ish).


**Okay, so this one takes place in late Season 2 or early Season 3. I know it might be upsetting for some that Cuddy is into some other guy in this fic, but my feeling is, she doesn't even realize that House has deep feelings for her yet. She definitely **_**would**_** be into it, but assumes it's not even a viable option. As for House? He's just his usual emotionally stunted self.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy, despite the roadblocks! (And thanks to Jess and Survivachick for the beta reads.) - atd**

House and his team were all sitting around the DDx room, in various states of torpor.

Chase was flipping through a travel magazine. Foreman was checking his stock returns on the Internet. House was dozing off. And Cameron was watching House doze off.

Cuddy came marching in.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say my highly specialized, highly compensated team of diagnosticians was sitting around on their asses doing nothing," she said. But her voice didn't sound angry. If anything, she was being playful.

House's eyes fluttered to half-mast.

"No case," he murmured. Then, as though that had solved matters, he closed his eyes again.

"Which is exactly why I'm here," Cuddy said, flicking him on the side of the head.

His eyes popped open.

Cuddy took five case files and fanned them out, like she was holding a hand of cards.

"Pick a file, House," she said. "Any file."

House looked at his team. With a shrug, he grabbed one of the files.

"Ta da!" Cuddy said. "You officially have a case."

"You can't make me. . .!" House began to protest.

"Relax," Cuddy interrupted. She dropped the rest of the files in his lap. "You can pick any of these files. And if you don't like these, there's more where that came from. Just find a case. Now. Nap time is over. See you later, kids."

And with that, she sashayed out of the office.

House watched her, his mouth slightly agape.

"That was. . . weird," he said.

"She didn't seem mad at all," Chase said, furrowing his brow.

"She seemed. . .amused," Foreman said.

"That's because she's in a good mood," Cameron said, with a knowing smile.

"Kinda picked up on that," House said. "The question is: _Why _is she in a good mood? It should be monitored. And discouraged."

"Word around the hospital is, Dr. Cuddy has a new boyfriend," Cameron said triumphantly.

Now they all looked at her.

"Since when?" Foreman said.

"Since. . . a little over a month ago," Cameron said. On the one hand, she was thrilled to suddenly be the center of attention. On the other hand, she wasn't happy with the look on House's face (namely, he looked upset.)

"That's impossible," House said. "Cuddy doesn't date. She lures men into her lair, has her way with them, and disposes of the body."

"Apparently, she let this one live," Cameron said. "His name's Seth Turnblatt. He's a lawyer."

"Of course he is," House said. "And one shark circles another."

"A civil right attorney," Cameron said. "He does pro bono work for the ACLU."

"Oh," House said.

"Have you met him?" Chase asked.

"Not yet," Cameron said. "But she told me he's coming to the hospital tomorrow for lunch. So we'll all get our chance to rubberneck."

"She must really like him," Chase said. "I've never seen Dr. Cuddy so happy."

"I have," House mumbled, almost to himself.

"When? Every time you leave a room?" Foreman asked.

####

"Do you think those are plugs?" House asked, peering at the table where Cuddy and Seth were eating lunch.

"Looks like real hair to me," Wilson said.

"He looks like a Chia Pet," House said skeptically.

"You're ugly when you're jealous," Wilson said, with a tiny smirk.

"I'm not jealous. I actually pity the guy. Dating Cuddy should be considered charitable work. He should get a tax writeoff."

"He doesn't look too unhappy," Wilson said.

It was true. Seth and Cuddy were, obnoxiously, all smiles—giddy even.

"Is he eating a salad?" House said, continuing to watch them. "With dressing _on the side_? What kind of man puts dressing on the side?"

"Hey! I put dressing on the side!" Wilson said.

House rolled his eyes in a "do I have to say it?" sort of way.

"I just have no idea what she sees in the guy," House continued to grumble.

"I don't know House. I've heard tell that some women actually like the tall, dark, and handsome type."

House folded his arms.

"He's not tall," House said. "I'm 6'2" and he's got to be at least 2 inches shorter than me. I'd call his hair mousy brown, at best. As for handsome, you seriously need to get your eyes checked."

"House, you should've asked out Cuddy when you had the chance," Wilson said.

#####

In the following weeks, everyone on staff tried to take advantage of Cuddy's good mood—coming in a little later than usual; stretching the limits of the hospital dress code; requesting new cues for the pool table in the staff lounge.

For the most part, she was compliant. And even when she turned things down, she did it with a smile on her face.

The word around the hospital: Dr. Cuddy was in love.

House, conversely, was miserable—but of course, he could never admit to anyone (or even himself) that Cuddy's romantic status was the source of his lousy mood. He took it out on his team, berating and mocking them with even more gusto than usual. So, while most of the hospital was enjoying the good vibes from Cuddy's romantic bliss; House's team was doubling down on misery.

They all suspected that Cuddy's happinesss was the reason for House's extreme grumpiness—well, except for Cameron, who chose to believe that House's leg was probably just acting up—but wouldn't dare say a word to him. They knew, intuitively, it would just set him off further.

He was testy with Cuddy, as well. One night, he bumped into her just as she was leaving her office for the day.

"Need you," he said.

"It can wait," she said, fastening a pair of clip-on earrings and brushing past him.

"Actually, it can't."

Cuddy stopped, looked at her watch, groaned a bit.

"It's 7:30. I'm late for the theater. What's up?"

House handed her an enormous file. It was as thick as an encyclopedia. She needed two hands to hold it.

"I need you to look this over."

She looked down at it, dryly.

"What? Now?"

"No, next Christmas. Yes, now."

"Can I have the Reader's Digest version instead?"

"No," he said stubbornly. "You need to read the whole file so you can make an informed decision about the nerve biopsy I'm going to ask you for."

"House, it's 7:30. I have a date. Where was this file all day long when I actually had time to read it?"

"Oh, sorry if _your job_ is inconveniencing you."

"Last I checked, a nerve biopsy was not a life-saving procedure. "

"It could be—eventually."

"And I'll read the file, eventually."

Then she pat House patronizingly on the arm.

"House, I promise to render my judgment first thing tomorrow. Meanwhile, you have my pager if a _real emergency _comes up."

"The real emergency might be that skirt," House said. "It's way too tight on you. I think it's cutting off all circulation to your ass."

Cuddy looked at him and—much to his great annoyance—laughed.

####

A few nights later, House went for a drive on his bike, just to clear his head.

He had driven about 15 miles outside of town when he decided he rather desperately needed a drink. His options were limited—he was in Trenton, after all—but he found a restaurant that had what appeared to be a well-stocked and nearly unoccupied bar.

He cut the engine and wandered in.

He had polished off his second scotch, already getting comfortably numb, when he noticed a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. He looked over. It was none other than Seth Turnblatt. He was wearing a business suit and had a woman on his arm. She was tall, mid-40s, professional looking. And most significantly: She was _not _Lisa Cuddy.

House's mouth dropped open.

He watched as the maitre d', who seemed to know them, led Seth and the woman to a corner table.

They weren't holding hands or kissing or anything like that, but House sensed the ease of familiarity between them, the physical shorthand of longtime couples. He watched them warily.

"Do you know that guy?" House asked the bartender.

"Mr. Turnblatt?" the bartender said, polishing a glass and glancing in their direction.

"Yeah," House said.

"Sure. He's a regular here."  
"And the woman with him?"

"You mean Mrs. Turnblatt?"

House practically choked on his scotch.

"_Mrs._ Turnblatt? Please tell me that's his sister . . . or his really, really, _really_ young looking mother."

"Definitely his wife," the bartender said, idly. "Nice couple."

"There must be some sort of mistake," House said. "Are you sure they're not separated? Or going through a divorce?"

"They just celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary here last month," the bartender said. "They're happily married." Then he chuckled. "Why? Are you interested in Mrs. Turnblatt?"

"Actually, I'm interested in wringing Mr. Turnblatt's neck," House grumbled.

#####

House paced back and forth in Wilson's office, but said nothing.

Wilson ignored him for as long as possible, until he could no longer take it.

"Do you have a wife about to give birth in the maternity ward that I was unaware of?" Wilson said.

"I'm thinking," House said.

"Usually that's a solitary event for you, done with a giant tennis ball in your office. So that doesn't explain why you're currently boring a three-legged hole in my carpet."

House stopped pacing, looked down at his cane.

"That's just mean," he said.

"What's going on House?"

House sighed and flopped extravagantly onto Wilson's sofa.

"I know something I probably shouldn't know," he said.

"House, you have an IQ north of 160. You know lots of things you probably shouldn't know."

"About Cuddy."

"Her favorite brand of thong?"

"About the asshole she's dating."  
"House, he's _not_ an asshole. Let it go."

"I can say with some certainty, he is an asshole."

"Meaning?"

"He's married."

Wilson squinted at him.

"Not funny, House."

"Not joking, Wilson."

Wilson continued to stare.

"And how do you know this highly suspect piece of information?"

"I saw it with my own eyes."  
"You saw him getting married?"  
"I saw him out at a restaurant with his wife of _15 years_."

Wilson suddenly slumped back in his own chair. He realized that House wasn't messing with him.

"Holy shit," he said.

"Is it possible that Cuddy. . .already knows?" House asked, hopefully. It was hard to imagine Cuddy being complicit in a man cheating on his wife. But it beat the alternative: That she was completely in the dark and was about to get her heart broken.

"No way," Wilson said. "She told me he'd never been married."

"Crap," House said. Even though he was no longer pacing, he continued to grind his cane into the rug. Wilson was too perplexed to notice it.

"House, you've got to tell her."

"No way. None of my business."

"Of course it's your business. She's your friend."

"Not once I tell her this she won't be."

"House, if you don't tell her, I will."

House popped up, having achieved his goal.

"That would be swell of you, Wilson. Thanks."

#####

Later that day, Cuddy came marching into House's office. Her face was red and the veins were practically bulging in her neck.

"Here we go," House muttered to himself.

"How dare you spread false rumors about Seth being married?" she said angrily.

"I didn't spread anything. I told Wilson. Who, apparently, just told you."

"Why would you lie like that?"

"It wasn't a lie."

"I know you've been jealous that my attentions have been. . .elsewhere, but this is a new low even for you," she said.

"Cuddy, I'm not this making up. I _wouldn't_ make this up. I saw Seth out a restaurant in Trenton. With his wife."

Cuddy gulped a bit.

"There must've been some sort of misunderstanding."

"No misunderstanding," he said. "The bartender told me they've been married for 15 years."

"That's completely insane," she said, jutting out her chin. "I don't believe you."

He looked at her sincerely. "Cuddy, I'm sorry."

"Seth wouldn't do that to me!"

"Yeah, he would Cuddy. He's an asshole. And a liar."

"You're the liar!" she barked.

Her lip was trembling a bit—but she was trying to maintain her armor of anger.

She got up, hastily.

"I don't know what your game is, House. But it's not funny. Not to me. Not to Seth. Not to anyone."

"Cuddy, I'm not. . ."

But she stormed out of his office before he could finish his sentence.

######

Of course, it didn't take long for Cuddy to find out that House's intel was true. And it didn't take much longer for the entire hospital get wind of her romantic misfortune.

She braved the humiliation like a champ. There were no days off work to lick her wounds, no public crying jags, no random outbursts of misguided anger. To most of the staff, she seemed back to her old self, perhaps a bit more withdrawn than usual—but nothing too out of the ordinary.

Of course, House noticed things that other people didn't—especially when it came to Lisa Cuddy. He began watching her, from afar, just to make sure she was okay. A few times, she would emerge from the ladies room with puffy red eyes; several times he saw her sitting in the cafeteria with a full plate of food in front of her that went untouched; her appearance was ever-so-slightly less impeccable than usual—a chip in her nail polish here, a run in her stocking there.

He wanted to talk to her, console her, but as far as he knew, he was still persona non grata in her eyes. So he kept his distance, instead grilling Wilson for any updates.

"How does she seem today?" he would ask.

"She's depressed," Wilson replied every time. "Still."

House felt helpless, and strangely responsible—although he knew it wasn't his fault. He was merely the messenger.

But every time he saw any sign of Cuddy's sadness—red eyes, that faraway look she occasionally got—he was filled with a kind of white-hot rage. He wanted to take Seth Turnblatt and bash his two-timing brains in.

He was having this rather cheering thought when he sensed a presence in his office. He looked up. Cuddy.

She sat down across from him, glancing first at the DDx room, which was empty. It had been almost a week since she'd found out about Seth.

"Hi," she said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Hi," he said, eyeing her cautiously.

"I came to say. . .sorry I called you a liar," she said. "That wasn't cool of me."

"Completely understandable, under the circumstances," he said.

"And I also want to thank you for not gloating," she added.

"I would never. . ."

"You were right about him. He's a liar and a cheat."

"I'm sorry," House said.

"Everybody lies, right?" she said with a shrug.

He ran his hand nervously through his hair.

"Right," he said.

"And I'm a fool for not seeing it."

"No one thinks that."

"Everyone thinks that."

He looked at her.

"Who cares what anyone thinks?"

She leaned back in the chair.

"I really liked him," she said. "I thought maybe he was _the one_." Then she chuckled at her own girlish naiveté.

"How'd you find out?"

"I asked him directly. He denied it at first.. But then, when he finally came clean, it was all the usual stuff: She doesn't love him anymore; she doesn't understand him; they haven't slept together in years; blah, blah, blah. And when I asked if he would consider divorcing her, he said, and I quote: 'She'll kill herself if I leave her.' It was textbook stuff. Right out of the Cheater's Handbook."

He peered at her.

"You gonna be okay?"

"I'm going to be fine. Eventually." Then she looked at her watch. It was 4:30. "Speaking of which, is it too early to start drinking?"

"It's never too early to start drinking," he said.

"You. Me? Sullivan's? I'm buying. It's the least I can do for calling you a liar."

"After you," he said.

#####

Happy hour was just beginning when they arrived at Sullivan's.

House and Cuddy sat at the bar. He ordered a scotch and Cuddy ordered a martini.

His goal was to get her mind off Seth and to cheer her up. So he told her the story about Wilson being set up with a patient's best friend, named "Jess."

"You can imagine Wilson's surprise when Jess turned out to be a dude," House said.

Cuddy laughed. That great, joyful, snorting laugh of hers—it was the first time he'd seen her laugh in over a week.

"The patient thought Wilson was gay?"

"Apparently so."

"So what did Wilson do?"

"They had a lovely dinner. They're going to the new exhibit at the Guggenheim next week."

"That's our Wilson," she said, fondly.

"Yeah," he said, smiling at her. And he motioned for the bartender to refill their drinks.

The next day, he sat down next to her in the cafeteria.

"I don't know why you keep bothering to order food," he said.

"We're in a cafeteria," she replied. "It's traditional."

"You haven't touched anything in days."

"I've touched my food," she said. And as if to prove a point, she picked up a carrot stick—and put it back down again.

"By touched, I actually meant ate."

"Here," she said, taking a bite. "Satisfied?"

"Elated," he said. "But maybe tomorrow you can order a cheeseburger and fries. That way, at least one of us can eat your lunch."

And she laughed.

Wilson bumped into House later that day.

"You and Cuddy were looking awfully cozy at lunch today," he said knowingly.

"The whole hospital is dysfunctional when she's depressed," House said. "Just doing my part to keep Princeton Plainsboro afloat."

Wilson smiled.

"I think it's sweet that you're trying to cheer her up," he said.

"Shut up, Wilson."

They went to Sullivan's again the next day. And the next. He realized that he was becoming Cuddy's favorite diversion. Probably because he didn't treat her with kid gloves. He didn't tiptoe around her; he certainly didn't ask her about her _feelings_. He just drank with her and tried to make her laugh.

And it was working, too. Every time they went out together, she got a little looser, a little happier. He could practically see the tension lifting off her. She was smiling and chatting and even flirting with him a little. (The more they hung out together, the more often she touched his arm.)

He felt like a conquering hero.

And then one night, just as they were getting into a groove of conversation, he heard a voice:

"Liiiiiiiiiisa!"

They both looked up. It was Seth, standing next to them. How he had found them was anyone's guess. He was a bit wild-eyed. He was obviously quite drunk.

"We need to talk," he moaned.

"I don't want to talk to you," Cuddy said, firmly.

"Just give me five minutes. I'm dying here, Lisa. Dying."

"Go home, Seth. To _your wife_," House said.

"I loooooove you," Seth said to Cuddy.

House stood up.

"Listen friend. She doesn't want to talk to you, okay? So piss off, before things get ugly."

"This has nothing to do with you," Seth said, as if finally noticing House's presence.

"Wrong," House said. "I'm here with Dr. Cuddy right now. So right now, it has everything to do with me."

Considering the fact that his bum leg put him at a marked disadvantage in a fight, House never really backed down from any kind of physical confrontation. Maybe it was because he was so accustomed to pain. Also, he really had been fantasizing about taking a swing at this guy.

But Seth didn't want to fight House—or anyone for that matter. He just wanted to make his case to Cuddy.

"Please, Lisa. Just give me 10 minutes," he pleaded.

"Don't you have a conjugal bed to go home to?" House said.

Seth ignored him.

"Pleeeeeease," he said to Cuddy.

"What part of: The lady doesn't want to—"

"House," Cuddy said, cutting him off. "It's okay. Let me talk to him."

"No way," House said, folding his arms.

"We'll be fine. I'll see you at work tomorrow, okay?"

"But I haven't finished my drink," he said, looking at Seth. "I've been _husbanding_ it."

"House," Cuddy said. "_Go home_."

House looked at Cuddy, a bit helplessly. So now he was being dismissed?

"You sure?" he asked, warily.

"I'm positive," she said. Then she gave him a reassuring pat on the arm.

"I'll call you tomorrow. I promise."

House sighed, gave Seth a slightly threatening look, and left.

######

As usual, House didn't do as he was told.

He didn't go home, he didn't even leave the parking lot. He sat in his car, with the engine idling, watching the bar door.

Half an hour later, Seth came out—alone. This was a good sign. Cuddy had obviously given him the heave-ho. He looked pissed—and certainly in no state to drive—but Seth wasn't House's concern. Cuddy was.

He waited for her to emerge. Half an hour passed. Still no Cuddy. Another 20 minutes. Still no sign of her. He was tempted to go back inside, check on her, but his plan had always been to make sure she was okay and then slip away, unnoticed.

Finally, after another 20 minutes, Cuddy exited the bar. She was unsteady in her pumps. She bobbed and weaved a bit as she stumbled to her car. And he realized there was no way he could let her drive home. So much for stealth observation.

He cut his engine and approached her.

"Cuddy," he said.

"You came back!" she said, brightly.

"I never left," he admitted. "You okay?"

"I gave Seth a piece of my mind," she slurred. "I should've given him a piece of my shoe—up his ass."

House smiled.

"Atta girl," he said.

"Goodnight, House!" she said—practically falling against her car as she fumbled for her keys

"Hey, here's an idea," House said, grabbing her arm to steady her. "Why don't you let me drive you home?"

He was expecting her to put up a bit of resistance. But even drunk Cuddy was a good girl at heart. She handed him the keys.

"That's probably a good idea," she said.

As they drove, she talked about Seth—mostly incoherent things about promises he'd made her, trips they were going to take, signs, in retrospect, that he'd been a liar the whole time. ("He never wanted to go to Trenton, now that I think about it.")

By the time they got to her place, she was curled up in the passenger seat, half-passed out. And House realized he was going to have to carry her in. He scooped her up and carried her to the door. Luckily, she was light as a feather.

"Cuddy," he said. "Keys?"

"My purse," she said sleepily. Her face was buried in his neck. When she spoke, he could feel her hot breath against his skin.

With one hand, he managed to fumble through her purse, find the keys, and open the door. He carried her to the bedroom.

He wasn't sure how much of her clothing he should remove—on the one hand, he didn't want to cross a line, but he also didn't want her to be uncomfortable. He settled for removing her pumps and her jacket. She was wearing a sleeveless camisole and a tight skirt and he fixated, briefly, on her bare arms and the curvature of her ass, as she lay there, curled up in a ball. Then he covered her with a blanket and forced himself to turn away.

"Thank you," she said sleepily.

"You're welcome," he said.

He started to leave.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"Home."

"How will you get there?"

It was a surprisingly lucid question, considering her state.

"I'm going to. . .call a cab," he said.

"No!" she said. "Stay."

"I actually don't do too well on couches," he said. "It's a cripple thing."

"You can stay here with me," she said, patting the bed beside her. "I trust you."

_But I don't trust myself…_

"No, it's probably better that I. . . ."

"Stay!" she said, a bit more bossily this time.

"Yeah?"

He looked at his watch. It was past midnight. He supposed he could sleep next to her without touching her. He was a grown man, after all.

"Okay," he said.

He kicked off his boots, thought about taking off his jeans, thought better of it, and climbed into bed next to her.

"You're so nice," Cuddy said dreamily. "You've been my best friend."

"Thanks," House said, laughing. He couldn't remember the last time Cuddy—or anyone for that matter—had called him nice.

"Remember the last time we were in bed together?"

"Yeah," he said warily. As if he could ever forget.

"How come you and I never had sex again?" she said. And she took his hand.

Why, oh why, couldn't she have been this affectionate when she was sober?

"Because. . .you're my boss. Because. . .our timing has been lousy."

"Our timing isn't lousy now," she said—and she kissed him on the mouth.

_Damn, damn, damn._

There was no way he could take advantage of this, much as he wanted to. She was drunk, heartbroken, barely conscious. But at the same time, he couldn't resist a tiny taste. So he pulled her closer, kissed her back, let his tongue explore her mouth, felt her body press up against his—just to remind himself how it felt.

He didn't expect to be overcome with desire so quickly. And he didn't expect her to wrap her legs around him, reach under his tee-shirt, grope for back and waist. It would all be so easy—to take off her clothing, to have Lisa Cuddy naked and writhing underneath him, to be inside her as he'd fantasized about so many times in the last 20 years. How could anyone truly blame him?

But he couldn't. Because he wanted Lisa Cuddy to really want him—not just because she was needy and drunk and vulnerable.

"Cuddy," he said. And he gently pushed her away. "We can't."

"We can," she said, kissing him again. "I want to."

She reached between his legs. He recoiled, as though she had touched something hot. (In fact, she had.)

He jumped out of bed.

"I'm calling a cab," he said.

"I don't think the cabby can give you what you need," she said sexily—a reference to the giant bulge in his jeans.

"It's for the best," he said. And then he said, under his breath: "And the best part is, you're not going to remember any of this tomorrow."

He stood over her.

"Just close your eyes, Cuddy," he said. "Try to sleep."

"I'm not sleepy," she said. But even as she spoke, her eyes were beginning to flutter.

He reached down, kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight Cuddy," he said.

"G'night," she murmured. And in moments, she was sound asleep.

#######

The next day, House was with his team, trying to determine the cause of the patient's pericarditis, when there was the sound of a throat being cleared. He looked up. Cuddy.

"Can we talk?" she said to House.

He studied her face—inscrutable. Did she remember anything?

"Scram," he said to his team.

"Scram?" Cameron said, annoyed. They weren't done with the DDx.

"Or, if you prefer the Pig Latin, _am-scray_," House said.

The team got up, reluctantly.

"But what should we—" Cameron started.

"We'll run some more tests," Chase said, grabbing her arm.

"And rerun the ones we've done already," Foreman added.

"Perfect," House said sarcastically, watching them leave

He turned at Cuddy. She looked a bit sheepish. Her shoulders were slumped.

"How's the hangover?"

"I wouldn't call it a pleasant feeling," she admitted, rubbing her head..

"I could write you a 'scrip for some vicodin? I've always wanted to do that for someone."

"I'm good," she said. Then she hesitated. "House, I don't remember everything that happened last night. . ."

"Probably for the best."

"But I do remember that I .. . hit on you."

"Oh."

"And that you. . .rejected me."

"Not the word I'd use," he said.

"What word would you use?"

"Willpower. Self restraint. Herculean self-denial."

She smiled, looked at her feet.

"Well, anyway, thanks," she said.

"No problem."

"House. . .before Seth showed up last night and I, uh. . ."

"Did your best Keith Richards impression?"

"Yeah . ." she chuckled. "Last night was the most fun I've had in a while. Actually, this whole week has been the most fun I've had in a while. You have a unique ability to . . .distract me, House. And I just want to say thank you."

"Any time," he said.

"Really? Because I plan on leaning on you a lot for the next few weeks. That is, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," he said, smiling.

"And by lean, I mean that figuratively, despite last night's failed seduction scene."

"You can lean on me, figuratively or literally, any time you want."

She smiled.

"You're not secretly married, are you?" she said.

"Only to my job," he said.

THE END


End file.
